


The Seventy-Sixer

by laridian



Category: Fallout 76
Genre: Also chickens, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Romance, but there's violence in later story arcs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28491426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laridian/pseuds/laridian
Summary: Beckett didn't expect to be rescued at all, much less by a Vault Dweller.Willow didn't expect to find anyone in this godforsaken wilderness he could trust, much less a former Blood Eagle.Neither expected to find someone to care about.
Relationships: Male Resident/Beckett
Comments: 36
Kudos: 9





	1. The Rescue

“… and then, if you’re lucky, we’ll kill you,” the Flayer laughed. Beckett didn’t know, or need to know, his actual name. “And have us a nice dinner.” Another laugh, showing broken teeth.

Beckett knew he should say something like “I hope you choke”, but his jaw still hurt, and he had to stop himself from testing a loose tooth with his tongue. He’d been told, over and over when he was younger, you do that, you’ll lose the tooth. He was about to die, though, so did it matter? But he said nothing, and left the loose tooth alone.

“Got nothin’ to say?” The Flayer spit at him; it hit Beckett’s jacket. “You’ll say plenty tonight, you know it.” Satisfied for now that the captive wasn’t going to fight back, the Flayer left, and Beckett began to shake.

They would absolutely torture and kill him. Someone who’d left the Eagles, escaped and been recaptured? Yeah, make an example, a real bloody one. Beckett didn’t know if they’d really eat him, though he would hardly be around to know about it. Unless they didn’t wait for him to die… his empty stomach churned.

 _Okay, Beckett, get a hold of yourself._ He tested each bar, the door, the lock. Reached as far as he could between the bars for anything he could get hold of; even the desk backed against the bars had nothing but a full ashtray and an old comic book torn in half. He couldn’t reach the drawers on the front of the desk, no matter how hard he tried. Nothing else was in reach.

Beckett tried the metal walls, looking for any weakness, any rusty spot he might be able to push through. Nothing. The roof? He couldn’t reach it. The floor? Covered in some kind of hard plastic stuff that was nearly black with scuffs and dirt, and probably worse things.

Then he paced, and tried the walls, the bars, reaching, everything, two or three times more. Nothing had changed.

He sat on the floor of the small makeshift cell. This was part of the old Rollins work camp, but it had been rearranged since he’d last been here, and he’d never been in one of the cells before. This was inside, away from light and fresh air, or what passed for it in the Ash Heap, anyway. Right now Beckett would gladly breathe a big double lungful of the stinking Heap air, if nothing else because he’d be outside. Here… he didn’t know if it was day or night, or what was happening. No, that wasn’t entirely true. He could hear some of the camp life outside. Someone banging out a beat on a big metal oil drum. Occasional laughter or quarrels near enough to hear. Sometimes a gunshot.

The single bulb in its cage flickered but didn’t die. Beckett drew up his knees and hugged them to himself, and tried not to think about how thirsty he was. He should think of anything else he could do. Attack when they came to get him. Fight his way out. He knew, he knew all too well, it was easier to beat someone to death than to knock them out; if he couldn’t escape, he had to hope that they were careless and killed him fast. He didn’t want to die and his body didn’t want to die, but that might be the best option, given that… given that he knew exactly what the Blood Eagles were capable of. Given that he’d participated, some of them, when he was high on chems and… hadn’t cared.

He realized after a while that there were more gunshots outside. Maybe some scorched or ferals attacking. Even those wouldn’t be enough to take down this Blood Eagle camp, though, and if they did… they’d try to kill him, too, and scorched were smart enough to use guns. They’d shoot through the bars. If he hid behind the desk somehow – if the scorched were stupid enough to not look too hard into the cells – he would live, but he was still trapped.

The gunfire increased. Must be something big. Grafton monster, maybe? Scorchbeast? No, he didn’t hear the shrieks of a ‘beast, and you could hear those from far away. Wait, sheepsquatch. Those were in this area, probably one had wandered too close to the camp and now causing hell. Sheepsquatch were damn hard to kill, bullet sponges practically, and you couldn’t eat them afterward for all the metal shot into them even if you did kill one.

Sounded like a lot of bullets pinging off metal. Had it gotten into the camp? So that the bullets were now aimed inside the camp? Yelling and shouting. If it was a sheepsquatch, it would tear the camp to shit. Probably tear up a lot of Eagles, too. Good.

Wait, wait, that didn’t sound like the usual gunfire. Big laser, maybe? Beckett stood and paced around the cell, trying to get an idea which direction it was closest. A lot of Blood Eagles carried lasers, but this sounded like a big one. Maybe the Flayer had it? Or some Eagle from another camp? Screaming now. Explosions of grenades; that one made the walls of his cell tremble.

Then everything went quiet. Had they killed it? He didn’t hear any celebratory yelling. No, wait; heavy treads. That – was that power armor? Beckett gripped the bars with both hands. “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey! Who’s out there! Help!”

The heavy steps retreated, then came back, but not in a direct line; looting, Beckett guessed. He’d do that, pick over whatever was out there. It meant whoever it was hadn’t heard him, either. “HEY!” he yelled as loud as he could. “HEY OUT THERE!”

It seemed like agonizing minutes until the heavy steps approached, and Beckett saw light at the end of the cell block corridor where the door opened. “HEY!” he shouted again. “Hey! Help!”

Power armor indeed. Only the military had that. Or maybe raiders, sure, now that Beckett thought about it, but this man or woman in power armor had taken down a Blood Eagle camp and Beckett was not going to waste his chance. “Hey! I need your help!” he said again. “Can you get me out of here?”

“What are you doing in there?” The voice had that weird modulated quality from power armor, hard to tell who was inside.

“I’m a prisoner, what does it look like!” Beckett said. “They’re going to mess me up, bad, unless you get me out of here! Please!” He hated to beg, but first things first: survive.

“Is there a key, or should I shoot the lock?” Power Armor asked.

“There’s a key somewhere, I don’t know where.” Beckett looked at the lock. A laser against a lock? Doubtful, and he didn’t want to get a bad richochet. “Can you hurry?”

Power Armor left and returned after a bit with the key. “Oh thank God,” Beckett said with relief, as the cell door swung open. “Look, I need to get my stuff – “

“Your what? You got stuff?”

“Yeah, it’s important, okay?” Beckett didn’t want to go into why it was important, this was wasting time.

“Okay. What’s it look like?”

Beckett described his pack, what was in it. Power Armor waited a moment in thought. “Grab your pack while I keep an eye out,” Power Armor said. “In case there are any more Eagles around. Then follow me to my camp. I’m a bigger target, they’ll aim for me first.”

~ ~ ~

Power Armor was right. There were a few Eagles still around, and more coming in; probably the Flayer had sent out the word about the torture party. Power Armor kept them at bay while Beckett legged it north, taking in those deep lungfuls of shitty Ash Heap air, air he hadn’t thought he’d have the (mis?)fortune to breathe again.

Should he try to get away from Power Armor now? No, the man or woman inside had gotten him out; better to at least see what they were doing. Maybe military, maybe not; the armor was painted in tones of dull red, like on Nuka Dark bottles. But it wasn’t Raider, with spikes and sharp things glued onto it. Raiders were almost as bad as Blood Eagles, depending on which Raider clan it was. But this one wasn’t either of those.

So, either military, or hell, maybe even Responders, though they didn’t have the Responders heart-logo. Didn’t look like those Brotherhood weirdos either. Maybe a freelancer? Someone who’d lucked into a working suit and the cores to power it?

Beckett stayed near the power armor, but out of arm’s reach, as they walked north, once they’d gotten out of range of the Eagles camp. “You’ll be safe at my place,” Power Armor said, out of nowhere. “You can crash as long as you need to.”

“Thanks.” And what did this person want in return? “Kinda takin’ a chance on me, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. But I don’t like torturers, or the gangs. Why’d they have you locked up, anyway?”

Beckett sighed. “I was one of them. I wanted out. They got me and dragged me back. They were gonna make an example of me tonight. Show what happens to those to try to leave.”

Power Armor said nothing. Beckett waited, shoulders tensed. “How about you?” he said at last. “What were you doing there?”

“I heard some chatter that the Blood Eagles were throwing a pigsticking,” Power Armor said. “I wasn’t sure what that was, but that gang’s always bad news. Now I know what it is.”

Pigsticking, poking and stabbing a pig until it bled, to see how much you could make it squeal. Beckett knew that one, all right. “They may come after me again,” he said.

“You’ll be safe at my place,” Power Armor repeated.

“How much farther is it?”

“Near New Gad.”

That wasn’t too much farther. They could make it there by nightfall, Beckett estimated, and maybe he could get a good meal or two and some sleep. Farther than that, he couldn’t plan right now. The adrenaline had worn off and now he was just tired, and he had to keep reminding himself not to touch the loose tooth. “You got any healing salve on you?” he asked. He could at least rub that in, awful as it tasted.

Power Armor didn’t pause. “When we get to camp. They’re all tied into my suit right now.”

“Oh. Sure. Uh, my name’s Beckett.”

“I’m Willow.”

Willow. That was probably a woman’s name; Beckett remembered at least one girl named Willow, when he was growing up. But not military, or it would have been some kind of rank, like, Corporal Willow or whatever. “Thanks for saving me.”

“Of course.”

They didn’t speak much the rest of the walk.

~ ~ ~

Willow’s camp sat along the stream running the length of the New Gad valley. Close enough to the forest for wood and game, the water was probably drinkable with enough boiling, there was plenty of open area to get good lines of sight on anything nearby. There were even three automatic turrets on the roofs of the little buildings, which explained why nobody had looted it yet.

Beckett looked into each of the little buildings. One was a decently built log cabin type; one a metal shack big enough to be called a barn, the bashed-together look he knew so well. The third was a dome of glass and steel. “Nice place you have here,” he said.

“Thanks.” Willow’s power armor stomped into the barn; a workframe stood against the back wall. “Make yourself comfortable.”

The dome had a bedroll and a few small supplies in an unlocked crate. As good a place as any, Beckett decided. He’d stay here the night, get a couple meals, and leave if things got dangerous.

He went to the stream to collect water and stopped when the armor's owner came out of the barn and into the sunlight. Willow was a guy. A guy in old workman’s clothes – yeah, he’d lucked into the armor – but the most beautiful man Beckett had ever seen in his life, which meant he had to be a Vault Dweller.

There was no other way. Everyone said you could tell Vault Dwellers right away. They were tall and healthy and sometimes even overweight. They had all their teeth and the teeth were straight and white, actual bright white. Good skin and no scars and you could just tell, looking at them, everyone said, because they were just too perfect-looking.

That was Willow, broad shoulders, narrow hips, he made the old clothes look good just by being in them, and yeah when he smiled his teeth were all even and white, and the smile was genuine.

And Willow had the most amazing eyes, like dark gold, a color Beckett didn’t often see. Maybe it was rads or maybe it was from being in a Vault, it wasn’t like Beckett had seen any other Vault Dwellers to date; maybe they all had eyes that color. But all told, the whole package? Beckett was unprepared for it, or how it made him feel.

Then suddenly the feeling – well, it didn’t quite go away, but it was like a storm had just blown over him, and he was faced with his rescuer being a handsome man who… what did he want? This felt like those people who said they'd seen angels or the Mothman.

~ ~ ~

By Vault standards, Willow figured he was average. He knew his eyes were his best feature – Mom had said that often enough, he had Dad’s eyes – and he wasn’t ugly, and that was it. Going Outside had been an eye-opener, because most people looked like they’d had a really rough life, even the kids.

He hadn’t gotten used to people staring at him, because he was a Vault Dweller, and apparently “Seventy-sixers” looked too different from everyone else. Even when Willow hadn’t had a chance to bathe or shave lately, or wash his clothes, people could still tell he’d come from a Vault. He didn’t know how they knew it, even before he spoke.

Therefore Willow smiled to put Beckett at ease, and Beckett looked thunderstruck even with dark glasses to hide his eyes. Now what? Willow felt suddenly shy and rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “I got you the healing salve,” he said, holding out a small reused jar full of the stuff. “And I’ve got stimpacks if you want one of those instead. And I’ve got stew on the stove, it’ll be ready soon.”


	2. The Debt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you repay someone who saved your life? By helping them improve theirs.

Beckett figured he’d stay the night and move on the next day. The weather wasn’t bad, the dome would protect him; the salve helped a lot, and it felt like he wouldn’t lose the tooth. The stew was some of that old canned food, heated, which Beckett wasn’t going to turn down, not a free meal.

They ate in silence. Beckett wasn’t sure what you even said to a Vault Dweller. He settled on “Thanks, again.”

“Well… couldn’t just leave you there,” Willow said. “Once I knew you were there.” He looked at the last bits of food in his bowl and back at the empty pot. “You said you were one of them, once?”

“I… yeah. It, ah, isn’t something I’m real proud of.” Beckett’s bowl was scraped clean by now. “And they’re like a lot of the raider clans around here. If you try to leave, you either change your mind, or you die. Which is one way to leave, but not the way I wanted to. So I’m glad you came along.”

“They seem kinda…” Willow searched upward for words. “You don’t seem like one of them.”

Beckett laughed. “Not now, I’m not. Glad I got out.” Then he sobered, remembering… more than he wanted to. And if there were any way to –

“You’re safe here,” Willow said, interrupting his thoughts. “You can stay. If you want to, I mean.”

“Anything I should know about around here? Mole rats, bug swamps…?”

That last confused Willow, from the look of it. How could he not know what a bug swamp was? Oh, right; Vault Dweller. “Well, if you don’t know what it is, it probably isn’t around here,” Beckett added.

“It could be,” Willow said. “You’re the first person I’ve talked to in months.”

Beckett stared. “But you’re from a Vault, right?”

“Seventy-six, yeah.”

“Weren’t other people in there?”

“There were. But we were all supposed to split up and... go far and wide, I guess,” Willow said. He took Beckett’s bowl and stacked it on his. “They told us we’re supposed to rebuild America, but – we got kicked out of the Vault with almost nothing, and told to spread out, and – how the hell are we supposed to rebuild like that?” he asked Beckett, as if the latter had answers.

“Yeah, that sounds weird,” Beckett agreed. Nonsensical, too. “You didn’t stick near anyone?”

“No. We spread out. I stayed away from some others who decided it was more fun to shoot at each other, almost died that first week, and I’ve been on my own since then.” Willow stood, and picked up the pot and bowls. “I’ll wash these. If you need anything else for the night, just say so.”

“Bedtime already?” Nothing wrong with talking around the fire for a while.

“I… it doesn’t have to be,” Willow said, pausing mid-turn to go to the stream. “I’m not used to company.”

“Then let’s keep talking, when you get back,” Beckett said. “I never met a Vault Dweller before.”

~ ~ ~

Beckett didn’t know if all Vault Dwellers were like Willow, but it made for an interesting talk. Willow had survived from a mix of luck, quick thinking and cussedness, from what Beckett could tell. He’d even conned some robots into letting him stay in a hotel the previous winter, which Beckett figured was the only way the man had survived. But Willow was now focused more on survival than anything else, and that was rough. He’d come out of the Vault when the scorched plague had wiped out everyone else – everyone who hadn’t been holed up 76, anyway – and been on his own ever since.

“That’s a hard life,” Beckett said. You didn’t go it alone, not if you could avoid it. That was a good way to end up dead, without anyone watching your back. Which was how he’d ended up locked in a cell and waiting to be guest of honor at a pigsticking party.

“I don’t like it,” Willow said, and it almost sounded like whining at first. “This isn’t what it was supposed to be. The Overseer lied to us.” He hunched over, staring at the little fire they’d put together when night came on. “If we’d stayed together, we could’ve moved into one of those towns and lived there, and started rebuilding, where there were already houses.”

“Yeah, that makes lots more sense than what happened to you,” Beckett said. “So what’ll you do now?”

Willow looked at him across the firelight that made his gold eyes shine. “What I’m doing now, I guess. Scavenging. Hunting. I took over this cabin, and it had the glass house with it. It’s safe enough and it’s got water and I can get wood from either side of the valley. But I can’t rebuild anything by myself.”

“There’s more people coming in,” Beckett pointed out. “You could fall in with them.” Raiders, Blood Eagles, settlers, probably someone’s little army would show up sooner or later to stake a claim on anything good.

Willow shrugged and went back to staring into the fire.

They sat listening to the pop-crack of the logs. It was all drops, Beckett noticed. Nothing chopped, just stuff you’d pick up. Canned food he’d scavenged, a cabin he’d claimed but not built, collected wood… It was dark now, but Beckett was pretty sure he hadn’t seen even a little garden. The food was all canned or packaged. Willow was beautiful, lucky, and probably had no idea what else he could do to make things better for himself. Was never taught how to survive out here.

“Guess it’s time for bed,” Beckett said, when the silence stretched out. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“See you. Good night.”

~ ~ ~

Willow barely slept that night. Stupid of him to invite anyone back to his place. Stupid of him to think it would be safe. He’d already barred the door and windows shut so nobody would get in, but still couldn’t relax enough to sleep.

Nobody had been trustworthy at all ever since he’d left 76. The Overseer lied, Vault-Tec screwed them all over, the few other Seventy-Sixers Willow had come across had shot first and he hadn’t stuck around to ask questions. Now other people were returning to this region, and half of them were intent on murdering the other half, and Willow wasn’t sure which were which. Even that one damn woman who’d cursed him out after he’d saved her from giant hairless rats.

In other words, people were trouble.

At least it was a good excuse when he did have to shoot them. And some groups’ motives were easier to discern than others; the Blood Eagles were always bad news.

So why’d he brought this guy home?

Because he was too softhearted, Willow told himself. Because for once, someone he’d helped didn’t immediately try to knife him in the back. For once, someone had been grateful for the help, and didn’t spit on him for trying to talk.

He wished, as he did every night, that he’d never left the Vault. And just like every night, the wish remained unanswered.

~ ~ ~

Willow finally fell asleep in dark hours of morning, jerking awake when the sun was well up. The shutters kept most of it out, of course, but he could see the strong morning light through the gaps. Dammit. The morning was half gone. But at least he was still alive.

He listened before unbarring the door. Just the usual sounds. Didn’t sound like anyone was waiting, gunning for him… then again, he couldn’t think who would do that. Willow opened the door.

It looked like a fine spring day, the kind in holotapes: bright blue sky, puffy white clouds, sun shining, birds singing. It still didn’t feel entirely real, but not like a ‘tape either. Willow stayed in the doorway, still uneasy at the height of the sky.

“There you are!”

Willow spun, reaching for a weapon, but he was unarmed. Beckett held up his hands anyway. “Whoa, whoa there, friend. Take it easy. It’s just me.”

Willow straightened. Why was the man still here? “Okay,” he said. “Uh… is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. Look,” Beckett said, staying where he was, “you saved me, you know that? Saved my life. You and I both know I wasn’t going to survive the night there.”

Willow half-shrugged, then nodded. “They didn’t come here, did they?”

“No, I don’t think you left anyone alive to follow.” Beckett took one step closer. “Look, you still have a lot to learn out here, I’m guessing. Why don’t I help you out? Pay back my debt to you.”

Willow frowned. “You don’t owe me anything.” Besides, he could survive out here. He had so far. Even found a safe place last winter.

“I…” Beckett scratched the back of his head. “I’d feel better if I repaid you. It’ll help both of us. Right?”

“Like what? What d’you think I need to know?”

The list Beckett reeled off was impressive: how to butcher animals, get the hides, chop wood, trade, repurpose things, plant crops… “If you really want to survive out here, friend, you’ve got to know some of this,” Beckett finished. “Unless you go to a settler town and try to set up there. Even there, you’d need to know some of it. Not just keep scavenging for twenty-five-year-old food.”

Those were valid points, Willow had to admit. Just one more sign of how Vault-Tec had screwed them all over. All this was stuff he should’ve known before leaving the Vault, sounded like, because it all made sense. “Okay,” he said at last. “But no tricks.”

“No tricks.” Beckett held up a hand like he was being sworn in to a club meeting. “Ready to get started?”


	3. How to Survive and Thrive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "[A] community of people is critical to your survival. A plan to ride the trouble out all alone is not generally a successful one."  
> \- The Provident Prepper

It was a lot to learn. Willow barely slept the first few days, then decided Beckett was on the level and trustworthy.

Because Beckett did know how to do all those things. Willow had the vague idea that you stuck seeds in the dirt and watered them occasionally – that was from science class as a kid – but Beckett knew which dirt, and fertilizing, and what else to do, and soon Willow had a little garden next to the cabin.

Willow hunted, and brought back enough to practice butchering (a horrible, disgusting way to get food), but left dealing with hides to Beckett.

And Willow had to admit, it was easier to have someone at his back, someone he could trust. Not trusting was tiring, and if Willow had to put it into words, he was tired of always being on guard. Tired of always being paranoid. Trusting someone again was more a relief than anything.

“Hey. Something on your mind?”

Willow realized he’d been sitting with a spoon halfway to his mouth for a few minutes now. He shook his head and kept eating. “Just thinking.”

“’Bout what?” Beckett had almost finished eating. He’d done a lot of the cooking lately. Willow was picking it up; cooking wasn’t too bad, now that he understood some of it. Better than some of the other chores.

Willow shook his head.

“Where’d you learn to shoot? In the Vault?”

Willow looked up with a questioning frown.

“Because you’re a good shot,” Beckett said. “For someone who says they weren’t prepared for out here, you know how to use guns.”

“Oh.” Willow finished his mouthful, swallowed, took a drink of boiled water flavored with mutfruit juice. “There were VR programs in the Vault. The Anchorage Campaign, the Canadian War, stuff like that. I did a lot of those. And there was Miz Greta.”

“A relative of yours?”

“No, she was the librarian. But she was a sniper in the war before she went into the Vault. She, uh, I think she hated everyone, to be honest, but I remember she was real good at target practice. It wasn’t with real bullets,” Willow added. “It was all with blanks or VR. But she was the best shot, and I tried to match her.”

He scraped the bowl clean with his spoon. “I guess she noticed and decided to do something about it. She’d challenge me, I’d fail, she’d show me how to do it better. So… I learned.”

“Maybe she liked you after all,” Beckett said. “Sounds like she was trying to prepare you a little bit for life out here. Where’d she go?”

“I don’t know. I was the last one out of the Vault, because the Handys dragged me out before all the life support was cut off.” Willow met Beckett’s eyes, or he assumed so, since Beckett wore those shades all the time. “She probably took off like everyone else did.”

~ ~ ~

This was the most Willow had spoken about his past in a while. Beckett wondered how far he should push it. “Did you have any relatives in there? You were born there, right? What happened to your parents?”

“Dad said he was going north, Mom said she was going west.” Willow looked down at his empty bowl. “They both left before I got out.”

“Neither one asked you go with them?” That sounded weird to Beckett.

“I’m an adult, we’re supposed to all spread out far and wide, right? And my folks, they… if they hadn’t been stuck together in a Vault, I think they would’ve broken up before I was born.” Willow shrugged and reached for Beckett’s empty bowl and spoon. “They stayed together because of me, and because there wasn’t really any other option.” He stood and walked to the stream to wash up the bowls and spoons.

So, a Vault might’ve been safe from the bombs, but it sounded like the people inside were still just people, Beckett thought. Even if at least one of them was drop-dead beautiful.

~ ~ ~

Days passed into weeks, and Willow decided he liked Beckett. The man was a good friend, usually in a good mood, and knew more than Willow did about wilderness survival. Survival was no longer quite as daunting. Quite.

There was still the need to scavenge, but now with the increased food, Willow didn’t have to focus so much on canned goods that hadn’t exploded or gone bad, or really old packages of cookies that had gone hard as rocks. He started bringing back whatever caught his fancy: tools, hardware, clothes, soap, plush toys, old aluminum foil, shoes, coffee cups.

“Are you lookin’ to start a junkyard here?” Beckett asked one afternoon, when Willow staggered back to camp under another heavy load.

“We can use all this, right? Somehow? You said everything’s got a use.”

“It does, but…” Beckett rubbed his chin at the sight of the sacks of junk. “You don’t have to bring back _everything_.”

“If I don’t, someone else will take it.” Willow had never felt like this before he’d left the Vault, that he should take everything. In the Vault, it was rude, you always left something for someone else. Out here, though? As soon as Willow had been driven off by other Seventy-Sixers who took the loot he’d been after, he’d changed his mind. It was every man for himself out here (and every woman for herself), and if he had it, better for him, sucks to be them.

“That’s true,” Beckett said, “but you keep this up and someone’ll come looking to raid us just because we have piles of stuff, most of it neatly sorted.”

Willow hadn’t thought of that. He bit his lower lip, studying the junk he’d hauled home. When he looked up, Beckett was still watching him. “Okay,” Willow said. “That’s true. Maybe just tell me what I should look for? If there’s something specific?”

“Sure, we can do that. Keep looking for stabilized fuel for the generator.”

That ran the turrets, as well as the lights in the house, but Willow only used the generator for the turrets, and even then he’d had to shut them down more than once. At least Beckett was here all the time. Willow had found a shotgun for Beckett to use early on, so he wouldn’t be completely defenseless.

“If anyone comes by looking to trade, we’ll have something to offer,” Beckett said. He lifted items out of the first sack and shook out a faded red shirt.

“That’s mine,” Willow said without thinking.

“O-kay,” Beckett said, and set it aside. “Not into homespun, are you?”

“Into what?”

“Homespun. New cloth, not from the old days. You know?” Beckett looked over his shades at Willow, who was still confused. “Okay, you know there’s still a lot of clothes leftover from the old world. But people do make their own clothes now, too.”

“They do? Where’s the cloth come from?”

“Let’s sort this out and I’ll educate you some more on how this world works, mm?”

~ ~ ~

That night they drank old beer by the fire, and Beckett said if Willow found a working crystal radio that’d be nice, they’d have music to listen to. Some of the old stations were automated and never stopped playing the same songs from before the war.

“I know,” Willow said. “I can get radio through the Pipboy.”

“Why haven’t you been playing it, then?”

Willow shrugged and took another drink of beer. “Not like I can really listen while I’m scavving.”

“Or hunting. That’s a good point. But you could here. What kind of range do you have on that?”

Willow held out his arm. He took the Pipboy off at night, just to give his arm some air and let him sleep peacefully, but during waking hours he almost always wore it. Mostly for the internal map; Willow often struggled with compass directions and how they related to the real world. But he’d gotten very good at remembering landmarks, in familiar territory.

They messed with the Pipboy for a while, pulled in a radio station with classical music, and then one with prewar songs. “Yep, same stuff,” Beckett sighed. “Sometimes, in the gangs, someone had a guitar and actually knew how to play it, or a banjo, y’know, stuff like that.”

“The Blood Eagles?”

“No… this was before them.” Beckett grew quiet. “I’m glad that’s all behind me now.” He finished his beer.

The radio filled in the silence between them.

“Uh,” Willow said, and took the last drink of his own beer, “it’s been really nice having you around.”

“Glad to hear it. You’ve got a nice place here, and you’re a fast learner.”

“Thanks.” That was nice to hear, actually. “I'm glad you stuck around.”

“I hadn’t planned on leaving anytime soon. This is…” Beckett blew out his breath. “Peaceful. I kinda needed this after everything that happened.”


	4. The Storm

When the cargobot crashed into the glass house, Willow counted it lucky that only two of the panes of roof glass were smashed. The glass house was round, a dome, and maybe that had done it; maybe the ‘bot had just glanced off the steel framework.

At any rate, breaking into and looting the cargobot kept him and Beckett occupied for a while. It contained a pistol that wouldn’t stop an asthmatic roach, but at least there were matching bullets; some pre-war money; some cans of purified water, which were more valuable than the pistol or money; two stimpacks; and some chems, which were worthless. Willow had sometimes huffed wackaback in the Vault, but didn’t know where he’d even get it now, and anyway, that had been more to kill time than anything else. This stuff was way stronger, and he didn’t want to risk himself on them.

Wait, not totally worthless. Someone would probably want them.

He’d gotten deep into studying the ‘bot’s innards, whether it was worth trying to salvage it, or if he should just yank the wires and chips out in case he could use them later, when Beckett coughed. “Radstorm’s coming.”

Willow looked up and made a face. “Yeah. Guess we’d better get inside.”

“Hey, uh, since the ‘bot hit the roof…”

Oh. Right. Willow looked at the glass house. There was now a good-sized hole in that part of the roof. Which might be fixable, a couple of boards maybe, but not before the radstorm hit. He looked down at the ‘bot; probably couldn’t move it or salvage it in time, so it would just have to wait for the storm to end. “C’mon in the cabin,” he said.

~ ~ ~

Beckett hadn’t been in the cabin before. It was clean, with a two-person bed and a dresser and a little radio. “Nice place you got here,” he said, trying to keep a light tone.

Willow closed the shutters, which stayed open most of the time during the recent nice weather. “Thanks. It’s…” he sighed. “I wish it was better.”

“Like how?” Could use a chair or two in the place, Beckett thought, but Willow probably just used the single-room cabin to sleep in.

“Well, a lock on the door, for one thing.” Willow sat at the head of the bed, and after looking at Beckett, gestured for him to sit at the other end.

“Who set up the power?” Beckett turned the radio on and set the volume low.

“Me.”

Beckett nodded. “You can do that? Wiring and electrical?”

“Enough to do this, yeah. That’s the kind of stuff I had to learn,” Willow said, ghosting a smile. “Useful for rebuilding America, but not useful for learning how to stay alive. So, uh… were you a settler? That you know how to do all this stuff?”

The crackling thunder of the radstorm echoed through the valley. Willow hunched over a little.

“No, I…” Beckett removed his shades; it was too dark in here now to see while wearing them, especially since the cabin had no lights. “I learned a lot of it as a kid, and growing up, but then, y’know… you wanna do something else, and…” He shrugged. “Why’d your parents name you Willow?”

“My mom loved the name and was going to name her first kid Willow no matter what.”

“…Well, that’s different.”

“Yeah.”

They listened to another boom, and then the rain started.

“I, uh, I wanna thank you,” Willow said. “For helping me out. Teaching me stuff.”

Beckett scoffed a little. “It’s all good, right? Like I said, you saved me. Of course I’m going to repay that. A lot of folks wouldn’t bother, or they’d finish the job the Eagles started.” He moved his legs to sit cross-legged on the bed. Actual blanket and a decent pair of pillows, he noted, not just a bare mattress. “Besides, nobody’s so rich they can afford to throw away friendship, right?”

Willow started to draw up his knees, realized he still had his boots on, and took them off so he wouldn’t dirty the bed with them. He frowned at Beckett’s boots on the bed.

When he straightened up again, he saw Beckett looking a little anxiously at him. “That’s right,” Willow said. “You’re my first friend since I had to leave the Vault. I… Thanks.” It just felt good to have someone around, someone to talk to and… be friends with.

“Sure. Glad to hear it.” Beckett held out his hand, and Willow didn’t know if he was supposed to do a fist bump or shake hands or what. As a result he put his hand around Beckett’s, and Beckett laughed, and so did Willow.

But Willow didn’t let go, either.

“You, ah… you okay there?” Beckett asked.

“Yeah. I’m glad you’re here.” Willow squeezed Beckett’s hand, then let go. “Get your shoes off the bed.”

“Wow, mood swing.”

“It’s the nicest bed since I left the Whitespring. I don’t want it dirty.”

“Fine.” Beckett swung his feet to the floor.

“You might as well take them off,” Willow said. “You’re staying here tonight.”

Beckett’s eyebrows went up.

“It’s raining, the glass house is gonna get all that rad-rain in it, it won’t dry out until tomorrow. So, you stay in here.”

“Wish I’d known that in time to get my stuff out of it,” Beckett remarked, but he removed his boots. “Uh… if I can ask…”

“In the bed. It’ll be fine. I trust you,” Willow said. “And we’re friends, right? I’m not gonna make you sleep on the floor. Probably I should be sleeping on the floor,” he said, almost as an afterthought, “but I don’t want to. So we’ll share the bed.”

If all Seventy-Sixers were like this, Beckett thought, they might’ve had trouble rebuilding even if they hadn’t been turned loose like a bucket of mice. “You learned how to do wiring in the Vault?”

“Electrical, yeah. Part of the rebuilding program, practical jobs, stuff like that. Not much call for it right now though.” Willow crossed his legs on the bed.

“No, not now, but… more people come in, more people settle, someone’s going to want electric lights. Bigger settlements. I think they’d pay pretty good to get that set up.”

Willow considered. He hadn’t thought of that. “Okay. I guess I could do that. Nothing real fancy, but I can get the power up and running.”

“There you go. See? We make a good team.” Beckett grinned. “And until that time, just keep scavving and shooting.”

Thunder boomed, and Willow flinched, looking at the ceiling.

“You don’t like storms?”

Willow shook his head, still looking upward as though he could see the storm outside.

“It’s just a radstorm.”

“First night I was out of the Vault,” Willow said, now visibly nervous, “I had to stay in a cave because of a radstorm. My Pipboy just kept ticking up all the rads I was taking, so I went into the back of the cave, and there were old bones back there, and some big-ass bugs.”

Beckett waited. Thunder crashed again. This was going to be a nasty storm.

“So I had to fight the damn bugs and there were the rads, and,” Willow swallowed, “I thought I was gonna die that night.”

“C’mere.” Beckett extended a hand, and Willow took it. They moved together until Beckett had his arms around Willow, who stayed tense, eyes searching the ceiling.

“It’s just a storm,” Beckett repeated. “And you’re not in a cave fighting bugs. This cabin’ll keep everything out. And I’m here.” It felt a little like reassuring Frankie that everything was going to be okay, years ago.

“I hate the Outside,” Willow said at last.

“It has its good parts.”

“Feels like everything’s trying to kill me.”

“Not quite everything. But a lot. Yeah. I get it. Going it alone’s hard. You did good all this time by yourself.”

“Thanks.” Willow leaned his head against Beckett’s.

After a song played from start to finish on the radio, Willow said: “I’m glad you’re here.” He put an arm around Beckett’s waist.

“Me too. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end of the Willow and Beckett stories - I have more to post about these two :) Comments are very welcome! I am on [Pillowfort and ](https://www.pillowfort.social/Laridian)[Tumblr](https://the-laridian.tumblr.com/).


	5. Wasteland Fishing

“I don’t like fish,” Willow repeated.

“That’s fine. We can have mirelurk.”

Willow made a face at that. Beckett laughed. “Have you ever even tried fresh fish? Fried up and hot?”

“…No,” Willow admitted. He set down his pack. The old Pioneer Scout camp still had beds – grungy, but better than a bedroll on the ground – and sites for campfires, so it was okay in Willow’s book.

“Then you have to at least try it,” Beckett said.

“Okay, I will.” Willow fished the lighter out of his pocket and started work on the fire. “In the Vault, there were fish sticks, when I was a kid. That was one of the kid foods. They always tasted gross.”

Beckett chuckled and looked across the lake with a pair of binoculars. “These will be better. I promise.”

“They’d better be.”

“Fresh caught fish, fried in cornmeal? You’ll be happy. Ooh, looks like there’s some lurks out there on the edge. We could have crab cakes.” He lowered the binocs to look at Willow. “You might like those too.”

Willow made a noise that summed up his lack of belief in that outcome.

When the fire was ready and Beckett had the shotgun loaded, just in case anything wandered near, Willow took up the grenade launcher. “Ready?”

“Yeah. You want to aim riiight there. You got it?”

“I got it.”

Willow aimed and fired. The grenade arced up, plunged into the water, and detonated, _boom!_ , and water shot up into the sky. So did fish, which rained back down.

“There we go! That’s probably enough to - ”

“Okay, I think I like fishing,” Willow said, taking aim a little farther over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Fluffy February prompt "fishing".


	6. The Chicken of Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chickens!

"What do you have there?"

Willow looked to Beckett. "Chickens. You know what chickens are, right?"

"Of course I know what chickens are. Why do you have a cardboard box with two chickens in it, unless the answer is 'for dinner'." Becket looked in the beat-up box. The two chickens eyed him warily. "Some people keep them." Realization dawned. "You're not..."

"Why not? They can eat stuff around here and we can get the eggs." Willow set the box down inside the glass house. "I've got to make them a real home, though."

"Okay..." Beckett considered. Eggs on the regular? Well, maybe? He wasn't used to eating eggs that often, but food was food. "Where'd you get them?"

"Remember that job where I was supposed to deliver a message from Flatwoods to Foundation? When I delivered the message I got paid in chickens."

"Must've been an important message, if they didn't want to use caps."

The chickens hopped out of the box and began investigating. One was a sort of golden brown, the other almost black.

Willow shrugged. "I have to build a chicken house now. Just make sure they don't escape or run out of the camp while I do, okay?"

~ ~ ~

Beckett decided he didn't like chickens. They were too damn fast, they went where they wanted, and their beaks were sharp. He eventually got them into the garden area, where they seemed content to poke around the vegetables... for now.

He watched them, suspicious that at any moment they'd try to make another break for it. By now he was fully ready to kill and eat both of them. A chicken apiece would be a good meal. Some tatos on the side, maybe? Oh, wait, grilled corn. Yeah. Beckett's mouth started watering. Screw the future eggs, a roast chicken dinner tonight was much more appealing.

The sound of Willow's hammering came to a stop. "I think I've gotta get someone to build this for me," he yelled from the other side of the camp.

"Okay. We can have these for dinner," Beckett yelled back.

"No!" Willow ran to the garden. "No! These aren't for dinner, Beckett!"

"I will _buy_ you more chickens from Foundation if we can eat these tonight."

The chickens scurried under the rows of vegetable plants.

"You won't even go to Foundation," Willow said. "What, you're going to give me the money to do it?"

"Of course. Or you get another messenger job, since they're so willing to pay in food."

"We're not killing the first chickens we ever got." Willow crossed his arms.

"Then where do you plan to keep them, hm?" Beckett knew he shouldn't feel smug about the unsure look on Willow's face, but really? Chickens?

"...They could stay in the glass house for the night," Willow said, looking around at the camp. "And in the garden here during the day. And the turrets should keep anything away."

Beckett often forgot about the turrets on the roof. They purred away and usually didn't go off, because by now most things had learned to stay the hell away from Willow's camp. "I suppose," he said reluctantly. "But if they escape, it isn't my fault. I can't spend all day guarding them."

"No, no, you can't." Willow rubbed his hands together. "I'll head to one of the towns first thing in the morning and find someone who can build a chicken house."

"Take all that extra ammo for trade," Beckett suggested. He looked back at the garden. The chickens were watching him. One false move and they'd still become dinner, as far as he was concerned.

Willow and friends:  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy February 2021 prompt #3, "Adopting an animal".


	7. Costume or Clothing

One weird thing about Outside was that Halloween decorations were everywhere. Willow understood why, he'd been taught, the bombs had dropped a week before Halloween, and everyone had been getting ready for it. 

But there were still pumpkins and ghosts and skeletons and witches and all the usual stuff, wherever the cardboard hadn't rotted away or someone hadn't scavenged the toys. In the Vault, Halloween had been a four-day event, after Memorial Day (when the bombs dropped) and Future Reclamation Day (same kinda thing) and then you put stuff away so you could get ready for Thanksgiving. 

Willow had never thought about it much, but it seemed like all year in the Vault, it was just one made-up holiday after another. Outside, there were a lot fewer, which was nice, but Halloween was everywhere.

“This Halloween thing.”

“Yeah?” Willow kept an eye on their surroundings while Beckett rummaged through the old suitcases.

“Did you do that in the Vault?”

“Yeah, when I was a kid. You dressed up in a costume and went door to door and said ‘Trick or Treat!’ and you got candy.” Willow sighted down his scope. Some deer. Should he shoot?

“Musta liked that as a kid.”

“There weren’t that many costumes.” Willow lowered the gun; the deer had moved farther into the trees, and it hadn’t been a good shot to begin with. “But it was the one time I didn’t have to be in that fucking jumpsuit.”

Beckett looked up at that, and Willow was embarrassed about his language, for no real reason. “Sorry.”

“You got some strong feelings about that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Explains why you want all those clothes, though. Must’ve loved dressing up, huh?”

Willow blinked. “That’s not – “

“I mean, you’ve got enough clothes to wear something different every day for weeks.”

“It’s – it’s because I only ever had the jumpsuits,” Willow said. “And you could get new ones, because they just… extruded them, I think, so when you outgrew one set, you got another one, and – stop laughing,” he said sharply.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Beckett said. “I found this.” He held up a very large T-shirt with big-eyed, big-breasted cartoon girls on it. “Don’t you ever tell me that people before the war weren’t into weird shit, man.”

“You can trade that thing away,” Willow said. “I mean it. I don’t want that.”

“Good, because I don’t think I could take you seriously if you wore it.”

“It’d hang on me like a tent.”

“That too, but someone’ll think it’s exactly what they want.”

Willow made a gagging noise and Beckett laughed again. “Okay, only one more suitcase to go.”

“I hope there’s some jeans in there this time.”

“You and me both, friend. You and me – there we go.” Willow heard the lock click open, but he watched the area instead. How nobody had found and looted these in twenty-five years was beyond him.

“And in here, we have… I don’t know what this is.”

Willow turned to look. There was a bright magenta rope made of feathers, the rainbowest, shiniest silver shirt Willow had ever seen, equally shiny black… pants, for lack of a better word, and other stuff in there.

“I want it,” Willow said, staring.

“Is this a costume?” Beckett asked. “Because I sure can’t imagine anyone wearing it in public.”

“Whatever it was, I want it,” Willow said, turning away reluctantly to keep an eye out for trouble.

“You don’t even know if it fits.”

“Nnnnnnyeah, but – “

“Yeah, I know, if it doesn’t, we’ll figure out how to use it some other way for you.” Beckett whistled as he closed up the suitcase. “Might as well take this whole thing with us, if the – “

Thunk.

“- handle stays on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Fluffy February prompt #4, "Halloween"


	8. Buttons and Bows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's Day doesn't mean so much after the apocalypse, but Willow's in there trying. Includes art.

Valentine’s Day was meaningless outside the Vault, but Willow still wanted to do something nice for Beckett. Not just everyday nice, something special. There wasn’t anywhere special to go, like in holotapes or books; everywhere had been pretty destroyed by now.

Candlelight dinner was always supposed to be a good fallback though. And chocolates, flowers, and jewelry. No way to get flowers in February with snow still on the ground. The only chocolates were pre-war and Beckett said those would gag a goat, so, more for Willow, but not a suitable gift, even if he could find some still edible now.

Jewelry was common, though. Willow had a lot of it he’d collected. Some of it they took apart – the watches and stuff – some of it they traded, but Willow liked to keep some of it on hand for how it looked. Beckett wasn’t a jewelry kinda guy, though, was he?

Willow frowned. He currently sat inside the Charleston train station, as the seats were free of snow and it was more or less out of the wind, depending on where you sat. A ring, maybe? But finding out the size would be hard to do. It would give away the surprise if he asked.

Candlelight dinner, then. Candles, Willow could get. Some New Responders were making them up in Flatwoods, and some other town was supposed to have a small industry for them; he could take some trade goods and pick some up there. Set the radio to nice music. It’d have to be indoors, because again, February. Probably the table should look nice, too. That golf resort place east of the airport, they had the real fancy plates and gold knives and forks. A couple sets of those should be easy enough to get. If someone lived there, he could trade. If whatever lived there got hostile, he could clear it out.

And something for food… have to be something home-cooked, and that meant Willow had to be able to cook it. Oh, boy. _There’s_ a challenge. What the hell could he cook that was fancy?

And something nice to drink, too. Willow sat up straight. He was close to the Teapot, and that yakkity Handy there would make booze tea if you asked, and brought the stuff to make it. (The Handy called it tea, but it smelled and tasted and kicked like booze.) That would absolutely work. Okay.

Willow stood up. He’d have to get back to camp first, and then tell Beckett he’d be away a few days, heading to Morgantown and Flatwoods, so he could do all this without him worrying why Willow was gone for so long.

He still had to figure out something to cook, but maybe he’d get some ideas at Flatwoods.

~ ~ ~

“This’s some good shit,” Beckett said, emptying the bottle of Sweetwater’s Special Blend into his cup. “Where’d you get it?”

“That talky Handy over at the giant teapot.” Willow had to agree. This drink didn’t bite so hard and boy, did it make him all warm and mellow inside. “There’s, like… honey an’ tea an’ stuff in it. And booze.”

“Booze is good food,” Beckett said, looking into the bottle just in case more happened to be inside. “I’m gonna open another one.”

“Sure.” Valentine’s dinner had been a success. Willow had actually practiced it up at one of the old mansions up the hill. That had helped. Beckett hadn’t even complained about the cake pops made with old Fancy Lads. “I’mma put on the radio, ‘kay?”

“Sure thing.”

Willow didn’t wear the Pipboy after they were inside for the evening; it was heavy and he didn't like hearing the radio from his arm. He instead got the little radio tuned in to the other station. (There were, as far as he could tell, only two stations that played music, and one of those was classical, which was nice, but not the one he wanted right now.) He’d even dressed up a bit for it, that bright magenta ruffled shirt he’d picked up at that mansion.

“If we ever find out where that’s broadcasting,” Beckett said, “and someone actually starts doing the work instead – “

“What work?”

“You know, the talking, the, what’s it called,” Beckett snapped his fingers a few times, “patter?”

“Like, pitter-patter? Cat feet?”

“You, my friend, are drunk,” Beckett pointed out.

“So’re you.”

“I’m only half drunk.”

“You’ve had the same amount ‘s me,” Willow said, aggrieved. He took another sip.

“I’ve got more tolerance’n you. You Seventy-sixers, you’re, like… glass flowers or some shit like that.”

Willow, who’d remembered something about hearts going pitter-patter as well as cat feet, laughed.

“Seriously. It’s ‘cause you lived your life all protected, like… like a pet in a cage,” Beckett said.

“It wasn’t a cage.”

Beckett shrugged and drank some more “tea”. “My point is, I’ve taken more chems and drunk more booze in my life than you, like… two or three times over, I bet.”

Willow couldn’t argue with that, not with what he knew about Beckett’s past. He nudged his cup toward Beckett. “Top mine off?”

“You’re going to pass out on me if you try to keep up,” Beckett warned, but he did so.

The song changed.

“This one makes me think of you,” Beckett said.

Willow knew it too – almost all the songs on the radio were the same ones he’d heard in Vault 76.

_East is east and west is west  
_ _And the wrong one I have chose  
_ _Let's go where you'll keep on wearin' those  
_ _Frills and flowers and buttons and bows  
_ _Rings and things and buttons and bows_

Willow picked up the next verse, changing the words a bit.

_Don't bury me in this prairie  
_ _Take me where the concrete grows  
_ _Let's move down to some big town  
_ _Where they love a man by the cut o' his clothes  
_ _And I'll stand out in buttons and bows_

Beckett laughed. “This is your song all right.”

_I'll love you in buckskin, or shirts made of homespun  
_ _But I'll love you longer, stronger where our friends don't tote a gun_

\- Willow continued, the “tea” letting him sing freely. He took another drink and Beckett picked up the next set of lines:

_My bones denounce packing one more ounce  
_ _And the mole rats bite my toes  
_ _Let's vamoose where folks keep usin' those silks and satins and linen that shows  
_ _And you’re all mine in buttons and bows_

There was the instrumental part before the woman began singing again. Beckett stood and held out a hand. “C’mon.”

Willow took Beckett’s hand and they stood close, swaying, almost dancing. Beckett wasn’t wearing those shades indoors, and Willow lost himself for a moment looking into the man’s eyes. He realized Beckett was adding his own words again:

_Vault-Tec stuff ain’t nearly rough enough  
_ _I’m the brute who’s wreckin’ the jails  
_ _Chewin’ the bars and spittin’ out nails_

Willow grinned, and as they danced, he sang over the lady singer:

_Oh give me a he-man, who’s sharp as broken glass_

He didn’t expect Beckett to match him – changing lyrics to something weird or obscene was standard school stuff – but Beckett did:

_Hey, I’m Appalachia’s toughest brute, for sure I’ll kick your ass_

Willow dissolved into giggles.

“You’re so drunk,” Beckett said fondly.

“Wait, wait, the song’s not done!”

_In days gone by, they used to sigh for the city fashion shows_

Willow struck a heroic pose.

_Now I wear coyote underwear  
I use bullets to button my clothes  
_ _And tie my shoes with rattlesnake bows_

Now Beckett laughed. “Bullets for buttons and snakes for bows? Well, _I’m_ so mean I hate _myself_!”

That was the end of any singing, as they embraced, laughing, and that song was almost over anyway; so they laughed, and danced to the next song, and the next.

_I’m all yours in buttons and bows  
_ _And you’re all mine in buttons and bows_

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by me. It was originally intended to be full body but the ice storm happened and this was as far as it got.
> 
> Notes: the lyrics are heavily borrowed/modified from the renditions of Buttons & Bows in the movies _The Paleface_ and _Son of Paleface_. Doris Day does a female-centric version of the song which is the most common one out there, and probably the one Willow and Beckett are listening to. Bob Hope did the original movie renditions and a very very painful “gag” rendition (and it will make you gag, _why, Bob, why_ ) in an exaggerated “western” accent, don’t look for that one.
> 
> I’ve always thought it was a lovely song for cross-cultural couples, and the lyrics do swap easily – the first, movie, renditions were sung by Bob Hope’s character, so the lyrics were feminized for Doris Day’s version. I hope you’ve enjoyed the version Willow and Beckett sing together. :)
> 
> This chapter was originally a few different Fluffy February fics, which I've put together as one work.


	9. Head Code

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willow finds another grudge against life Outside.

“I’b dying,” Willow insisted.

“You have a head cold,” Beckett said calmly.

“Dis is sub weird disease,” Willow said, and sneezed.

Beckett handed him a worn rag. “Blow your nose. And it’s a head cold. Didn’t you ever get a head cold in your Vault?”

“Doe.” Willow blew his nose and then huddled under the blanket again.

Beckett chuckled. “C’mon. You never felt like this before?”

“Doe.”

“I’d better start some soup for you.” Beckett didn’t move yet, though. He scratched his head. Never got the sniffles? That Vault must’ve been practically heaven, except for being trapped underground. And the food. And - “You’re sure about this? Nobody in your Vault ever got sick?”

“Doe.” Willow glared at him. “How’d I ged id?”

“You did say you went all the way east of Morgantown,” Beckett said, looking down at him. “And Flatwoods. You could’ve gotten it from anyone there. Or me - we swapped plenty of germs yesterday and last night.” Though Beckett wasn’t sick, but sometimes people just didn’t catch the same colds.

“Iv I die, iss your fault.” Willow sneezed again. “I’ll haunt you.”

“You’re not going to die, you whiny seventy-sixer.”

“Fug you.”

“Not until you’re better.” Beckett ruffled Willow’s hair. Willow glared again at him. “You’ll be fine. Trust me.” He went to start the soup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon: Vault 76, with a population limit of 500 kept isolated for 25 years, didn’t have the population size to maintain rhinoviruses long enough for them to mutate and stay around. The result is that within the first few years, cold viruses had all died out – which means Willow has never experienced one before. That said, one generation is not enough to significantly affect their immunity, so he and the other seventy-sixers won’t die from the common cold. Just be miserable for a week to ten days.


	10. A Little Light Reading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later that spring, a few weeks after the previous chapter.

“What’d you bring back this time?” Beckett began unpacking the sacks Willow had just set on the ground.

“The usual. You know.” Willow rolled his neck and shoulders. “Scrap stuff, more coffee cups for your bar, some meat that needs cooking, and some books.”

“Comic books?” Those were the only kind Beckett liked. He set aside the scrap for later and found the meat, wrapped in deer hide. Deer meat was always a good dinner.

“Yeah, for us to sell, maybe,” Willow said. “And some Mistress of Mystery novels. I used to read those as a kid, and I haven’t read much since I came out of the Vault.”

“You had books in the Vault?”

“Well… yeah. Of course we did. And comics too, but we only had so many physical books. A lot of them were on computers, but I knew some people who complained they’d read everything and wanted something new.” Willow began stripping off his armor pieces. “I’m going to wash up.”

“Sure.” Reading books, running out of things to read? Beckett shook his head. Books were good for kindling, unless there were pictures. He finished sorting the day’s foraging and went to start the meat.

~ ~ ~

In the evenings they’d usually stay outside, if the weather was nice; watch the sunset, maybe listen to the radio. Sometimes people came by to visit, and everyone would share news and talk, and Willow allowed them to stay in the glass house overnight.

But tonight, the cold rain rolled in, so no one was likely to stop just for a visit. Willow left the glass house unlocked just in case someone needed shelter – the broken panes covered over with pieces of board - and he and Beckett started the little generator and went into their cabin just as the rain started.

“Did you bring in the comic books?” Beckett asked.

“I… no, they’re in the barn with the other stuff,” Willow said. “I didn’t realize you wanted to read them. I can go – “

“No, not now.” The rain was coming down steady, and they were safe and dry in here.

“I did bring in the Mystery novels,” Willow said, holding one up. The cover looked interesting, a revolver-toting woman in a fancy dress facing off against a creepy guy, while a woman in white looked terrified and restrained in the background. “You can have one, if you want. To read, I mean.”

Beckett carefully took the book and opened it. Pages of words. No pictures. “What’s it called?” he asked.

“Uh… ‘The Bride of Death’,” Willow said, a little uncertainly. “Can you read?”

“Not this. Just the comics.” Beckett braced himself, and he didn’t know why, because there wasn’t any shame in not being able to read, “It’s easier to understand the pictures.”

“Oh.”

After their parents had abandoned them, or died, or both – it was so long ago that Beckett was a little hazy on the details now – he and Frankie had been on their own. There weren’t any schools left, and nobody was taking in orphan kids just to teach them reading. Both the brothers had figured out that certain printed words meant things, like the Red Rocket stations, or the supermarkets that might still have some canned food hidden away, that sort of thing. Comic books were easy to figure out what was going on, especially the fight scenes; Frankie loved those. They had no need for books.

Beckett waited. He knew Willow wouldn't toss him out for this, but he didn’t want pity, either.

“Could I read it to you?” Willow said. “I’ll do the voices.”

“…All right.”

With the lights lowered, side by side in the bed, Beckett watched as Willow’s finger traced the lines of text on the page. And Willow did know how to do the voices. It was sort of like listening to an old holotape, Beckett thought, as he cuddled a little closer and rested his head on Willow’s shoulder.


	11. Spring in Appalachia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking place a little after the previous chapter; spring has arrived to the area.

Spring had come to Appalachia, and Willow decided he liked spring. Everything felt fresher, the rain, the sunlight, and of course all the plants were leafing out. The whole world looked better in spring. The nights were still cool, which gave him an excuse to snuggle up with Beckett, but the days were getting longer, and things just seemed better, somehow. It was certainly better than last spring, after he’d left the Whitespring bunker and had to make his way again without a whole lot of idea how.

(The fact that the days weren't always the same length, on the Outside? Weird. So much of half-forgotten lessons kept coming back to Willow's memory, but randomly, and incomplete.)

The baby chicks were fluffing out, and Beckett and Willow knew that eventually, they'd have enough chickens to sell or eat, assuming they didn't lose too many to animals or possible theft. Beckett was worried about either of those. It wasn't like they could do much to stop a dedicated thief, but the chicken house could probably use some upgrades to better deter wild animals.

Willow did the scavenging and foraging, and if he took longer than usual in the wilderness, it was because for once, he enjoyed being Outside. The world felt better. The fact that he had a safe place to live and plenty of safe food and water, and someone to share it with, probably had something to do with that too.

~ ~ ~

He'd found a wild beehive, and that took him most of the day to figure out where he could get some containers, then clean them, then how to safely gear up and approach the hive to minimize the stings, and then collect the combs and honey to get them home, hoping he'd done it right, while the bees all did their best to sting him to death. One did get him on the ear, and that was horrible, but by that time Willow had all the good stuff in the washed glass jars he'd collected, and now he could head home.

Honey! Willow knew that was important enough, that talky Handy at the teapot always paid for honey to make that booze tea, but maybe Beckett knew how to cook with it. It was supposed to stay good a long time, wasn't it? Willow was rather proud of himself for collecting it, and only getting stung once, though that promised to stay painful and awful for hours at least. Maybe days? Bees weren't poisonous, he knew that much, though sometimes people could die from bee stings.

He packed the jars carefully in his rucksack, with leaves and scraps of old cloth between them so they wouldn't clink together and maybe break, and headed for home.

~ ~ ~

Willow heard repeated gunfire from the sound of the cabin. He frowned; Beckett had a shotgun, and usually animals were smart enough to run off at the first sound of gunfire or sight of people. Which meant it might not be animals at the camp, this late afternoon. Unless it was a bear. God, Willow hated bears, and if one was attacking the camp... Willow picked up his pace. If it was a bear, he didn't have a big gun like everyone said you needed for bears, he just had the rifle.

It wasn't a bear.

No, it was raiders, and one of them already had one of the chickens in hand, and it looked like they were trying to decide whether to attack or just thieve. Beckett was nowhere to be seen.

Willow unslung the rifle, sighted, and began shooting. It was sort of like that third Anchorage VR, except no snow; shoot, move forward while reloading, stop, sight, shoot again. They saw him, they began shooting back, the one dropped the chicken who legged it for the safety under the garden plants.

Willow felt the impact in his leg armor, it swayed him and he’d have a nice bruise from it later, but he still stood, and aimed to kill. Miz Greta always said, don’t try for headshots if you can get them in the sniper’s triangle, and he stuck to that now.

The third one tried to run for it, and by the time Willow was done with these two, was almost out of range, but Willow knew that area the raider was heading into; that place was full of scorched, and they might finish the job. His leg hurt, and his chestplate had taken a couple of good dings, but he was alive, and they weren’t.

He’d look in on the chickens later, and come to think of it, why wasn’t the turret – oh, it’d been shot up. Willow scowled. Smart of them, but it meant he’d have to fix it up.

“Beckett!” he yelled as he got close to the cabin. “Beckett! You in there!” Because it would be much better if Beckett was just taking cover in the house and not lying dead in a pool of his own blood.

“Yeah,” he heard back, and Willow felt a relief he didn’t know he’d been expecting. He walked as fast as his leg would allow; he’d rather not use a stimpack if he didn’t have to, let it heal on its own or use some salve on it. They were getting low on stimpacks.

“Where are you?” Willow called.

“Inside.”

“You hurt?” Willow asked as he stepped inside the cabin. He stopped when he saw Beckett sitting on the bed, shotgun over his knees, shaking. “Beckett?”

“’M fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Did they hurt you?” Willow shrugged out of his pack and pulled out the two stimpacks he had in there. “They’re all dead now, I killed them, except one ran off toward Charleston way, where the scorched’ll probably get ‘em.”

“I said, I’ll be fine!” Beckett snapped. “Sorry,” he added, his tone immediately softer. “Look, I just… it all kinda took me by surprise.”

“Are you hurt?” Willow asked for the third time.

“No.”

“Then… what?” Willow sat beside Beckett on the bed and put an arm around his shoulders.

“Just – I couldn’t do it. I don’t know why. I haven’t had to shoot at people since I left the Eagles.” Beckett took a deep breath; his leg jigged up and down from nerves. Willow took the shotgun from Beckett’s unresisting hands. “I couldn’t do it.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Willow said. “It’s okay.” Wasn’t it… Willow couldn’t remember the word, it happened to soldiers, though, Miz Greta had mentioned it, and… they never got over it? Trauma something? That wasn’t what happened to Beckett, was it? He really should’ve paid more attention to lessons in the Vault.

They sat there until Beckett stopped shaking, and the sun had gone down, and the chickens probably all went to roost. Willow didn’t know what to say, and Beckett didn’t say anything, but at last Willow could feel the tension start to bleed out of Beckett’s shoulders. “You feeling better?” he asked at last.

“I… yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

“I got honey today.”

“That’s, that’s good,” Beckett said. “I’ll take care of that tomorrow.”

“I got stung by a bee.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. I’ll put something together for food, okay? You just take it easy.” Willow patted Beckett’s back. “It’s safe in here tonight. I’ll get food, see if I can get the turret fixed for tonight, and it’ll be okay.”

The nagging thought came in that if they were in a Vault, this wouldn’t have happened. While true, it didn’t help right now. Willow pulled Beckett close enough to kiss his hair. He’d have to maybe get the other turret working again, and see if he could find a Vault, or ask MODUS if they could move into the bunker. But he’d bring that up later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the game, Beckett will sometimes respond to attacking enemies, but he seems to be a poor shot, and to me sounds a little desperate. Therefore I've headcanoned that after leaving the Eagles and coming to terms with what he's done, he's "lost his nerve" for shooting at other people.


End file.
